Considerable recent discussion of Mary Renault (as well as a growing sense of impending doom re "The Film") is making me nostalgic. So much so that I've just swum to the library through pouring rain to take out a battered old copy of Fire from Heaven. And why, pray, was this journey necessary when I own two copies myself? Because the hardcover is at my mother's, behind bulletproof glass as Pseudy wisely guessed, and the paperback I foolishly (generously? selflessly?) lent to a friend, who has since earned for himself the title of Slowest Reader on Earth. Looking at this ancient tome, however, I realised it was in fact the same copy I had out for the first time in 1989, and, like the first bite of a madeleine, it catapulted me back to MR's constant presence in my adolescent life.
1987: My first contact with MR was as a ten year old. I was helping Mum to rearrange her massive collection (I applaud its depth and breadth, but not her desire to group books by size and binding style. Eeeek!) and was immediately attracted to a paperback by the memorable name The King Must Die, which featured an eyecatching golden minotaur on the cover, together with various emblemata of wealth, decadence, sexuality and fertility. Mum instantly said I was too young for it and shifted it to another pile. Never put off by such amateurish measures, I returned after completing my homework, removed the book, and proceeded to read it secretly by night. No torches under the blankets for me - I used to avail myself of the fact that my parents left the bathroom light on all night for my sisters, and read sitting on the vanity after they'd gone to bed. The depiction of Theseus' strong sexual personality and his manly exploits, as well as the excesses of the mother religion, left me a little amazed, but a great love was born.
1988: Read The Lion in the Gateway, set during the Persian wars, which was actually written for children. Decided I preferred books written for adults!
1989: Started high school. The relative freedom granted by a bus pass and extended curfew led to a seditious habit - frequenting the massive Wellington Central Library, instead of the harmless Kilbirnie Branch Mum had always taken me to. At this point it was still in the old building, and still had a card catalogue. Rifling through the catalogue I found The Bull from the Sea, sequel to TKMD, but more to the point I found Fire from Heaven. The old library was so over-crowded by 1989 that only the newest books actually fit out on the floors, and the older ones were relegated to the stacks. Open Stack, where you could go yourself, and Closed Stack, a mythical place I'd never been. It was, in fact, down in the basement, and you had to ask a librarian to fetch your book for you. Summoning all my courage, I asked an old crone to go and get it for me. She looked amazed, as though young people never asked for material from Closed Stack (perhaps they didn't), and asked if I really thought I was up to reading it. I defiantly insisted I was, she fetched it, and the rest was history.
I finished it in a matter of days, and instantly returned to page one to read it again. Sometime during the second reading occurred that black day, the Athletic Sports, a day of shame for the non-physically inclined. I was immune, however, sitting on the embankment at Newtown Park, watching the hurdlers far below me with disinterest, and reading my book. Until A[censored], the school bully, appeared out of nowhere, asked what I was reading, insulted it, and threw it over the fence. Nothing daunted, I told her that her own inability to read was no concern of mine, and a legendary enmity was born. Needless to say, I hadn't realised yet how feared this young woman actually was. Either that, or Alexander's sense of invincibility had rubbed off. I retrieved the book, taped it back into its spine, and continued my worship. (I recognised it today by this tape job, and the remnants of a yellow sticker signifying that it once lived in Closed Stack.) A[censored] went on to make my life a misery for months.
1990-92: At some point I discovered that our school library possessed almost a complete set of the works of MR, which freed me from the Closed Stack crone, and proceeded to check out each in turn. I hated The Persian Boy with all the passion of a Hephaistionista scorned, but loved Funeral Games, despite the tears it induced. My embarrassment and mortification at having my name read out in the overdues notices every month for the same book led to my first act of Literary Larceny - I threw Fire from Heaven out a second storey window to an accomplice waiting on the tennis courts below - her price: the book she loved with equal passion. I did eventually return it when I managed to track down my own copy, a year or so later.
In this period I also read MR's non-fiction work, The Nature of Alexander, which remains my favourite biography, though I now realise she was too much in love with him herself to truly write as an objective historian. This only bothers me when I have my professional hat on though, and affects me as a fan-girl not at all.
I also dazzled and amazed my family, and pleased myself immensely, by managing to get many more questions right than the contestant who competed for Mastermind (a very serious quiz show where you had to specify an area of knowledge) as an Alexander expert. Yay me! Thanks Mary, I owe it all to you.
1993: Infamously, I was accused of plagiarism this year, my last at high school, for writing an essay on Alexander that was *too* good. The evil harridan who marked it threatened me with all kinds of dire punishments, and an absolute banishment from the Halls of Academe. I was in tears of frustration and humiliation, but refused to back down. Two classmates testified that they'd seen me writing it while sitting on the bleachers overlooking the netball courts with no books in sight, which only made her angrier. "Seventeen year olds don't write like this!" she insisted. I eventually won the day by reproducing much the same essay under exam conditions. Looking back with the benefit of hindsight, and ten years tertiary study, I think MR's influence on the piece in question must have been massive - I knew her almost off by heart by then, like Alexander and the Iliad. That wasn't really what Ms H meant, though. She took exception to my writing style almost more than to the content. I look back on said style in horror, and fail to see how she could have been impressed - the essay contained the truly immortal (hideous! horrendous!) line that the burning of Persepolis must have acted as "a powerful palliative to the pride of the erstwhile vanquished". Shoot me now!
1994: Chose to double major in Classics and Ancient Greek at varsity based almost entirely on a Renault knowledge base. Never, ever, regretted it.
1995: Commenced reading the modern (non-historical) novels of MR. Didn't like the first couple much, but then I found The Charioteer and a new adoration was born, as well as my first modern OTP. I grew increasingly irate at the fact that I was the only person to have taken it out since 1968, but was still constantly fined for returning it late. Contemplated a new act of Literary Larceny, but was fazed by the impressive security at the new public library. This went on to become, in fact, the very first book I ever ordered from the brand new, slightly frightening, Amazon.com.
And so on, to infinity.
Apart from a deep and abiding love for a set of books, my all-time greatest OTP, a thesis topic, and a career, I also thank Mary Renault for one seemingly small, but in fact enormous, contribution to my world view and my life. The simple truth is, my family, for all that I love them, are a product of their culture, class and upbringing. In short, they are, en masse, homophobes. Among other failings. I like to think my education, open and enquiring mind, and general character might have led me away from that anyway, but I can still pinpoint the first time I read Fire from Heaven as the moment this future me was set in stone. In the afterword MR addresses the fact that there's no hard and fast evidence for Alexander and Hephaistion's physical relationship, and comments, "those whom the thought disturbs are free to reject it." (Like the palliative atrocity it's burned into my memory forever.) I'm proud to say that my response was "What kind of idiot would be disturbed by a love story?" (This despite being a naive enough twelve year old that I *missed* the sex scenes in Fire from Heaven the first two times I read it.) And that's my battlecry to this day: "What kind of idiot is disturbed by love?" Dubya and friends, I'm looking at you. With a great deal of scorn, and no respect whatsoever.
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14valentines. Today's subject is reproductive rights. There's an essay on the subject here. This ficlet correlates only insofar as the boys are kids in it.
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